Wicked Circle c-5

by Linda Robertson

  The next thing Heldridge knew, the man was screaming . . . then he wasn’t.

  Heldridge gathered his wits and picked himself up to see Menessos wiping his mouth as he stood.

  “He bloodied your lip, mister,” Heldridge recalled having said. He hadn’t understood then what he’d been saved from or what Menessos had done to rescue him.

  “Yes,” Menessos had replied. “I believe he did. But he won’t hurt you anymore, son. Why don’t you hurry on home.”

  “Don’t have a home.”

  “Then get back to your parents.”

  Heldridge had dropped his chin down.

  “That wasn’t your father, was it?” Menessos’s voice had sunk deeper.

  “No. My pa’s dead.”

  “I see. And your mother?”

  Heldridge shook his head side to side.

  “Why don’t you come with me, then?”

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Menessos.”

  “That’s a funny name. Is it Polish?” Heldridge recalled his pa always complaining about some Polish men in their neighborhood. They always seemed to have strange names.

  “No, it isn’t Polish.” Menessos picked up the bag of rolls.

  Heldridge thought this funny-named-man would claim them, but he surrendered the thin cloth bag back to him. “This way.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To my home. It isn’t burned.” He’d walked away.

  Heldridge had followed. “What are you doing out here if you have a home that’s not burned?”

  “I have a crew of men who can rebuild homes. In the evening, I inspect the work they did during the day, and see where else I can send them so they get paid. What’s your name, boy?”

  “Heldridge.”

  “That’s a funny name. Is it Polish?”

  “No.” He tore greedily into the roll, chewed. “One of my grandpa’s last names is my first name. I’m Heldridge Ellington.”

  After that, he’d stayed in a modest house with a polite woman, Miss Babette, who cared for him. She even started schooling him. Menessos visited every evening, and Miss Babette gave him a report of Heldridge’s day.

  Eventually Menessos asked the then twelve-year-old Heldridge what he wanted to be when he grew up. Heldridge had thought hard about his answer. His father had been poor. He’d worked on the docks. But there were men in fine suits around town. Men who rode in carriages.

  “I want to be a businessman,” Heldridge had answered.

  “Then you shall be,” Menessos said.

  Arrangements were made and Heldridge learned from the best tutors, but at various intervals—sometimes months, sometimes years—Menessos would show up and ask him strange questions and would require him to say odd phrases in Latin.

  He knew now that these had been tests of his magical abilities.

  He had failed them all, but he’d learned to be a savvy businessman. Eventually Menessos rewarded him and Made him. With his help, Menessos had built a strong and prosperous haven.

  Then the day came when Menessos brought in another child. Goliath. This weak mortal’s intellect had captured his master’s interests.

  His master fostered the child much the same as he had fostered Heldridge, but Menessos’s interests had been keener because the seed of a witch was sprouting within this child.

  You were ready for me to leave, Menessos. Ready for me to be my own master so you could name Goliath your Alter Imperator. I could accept that my failure to manifest magical talent meant I was not what you wanted in a son. But you didn’t have to bring your haven to Cleveland. You could have relocated your Lustrata to Chicago. No one there would have been watching you in your city. But in my city, I was watching, and I recognized what she did to you.

  Yes, I took action. Yes, I told. You’ve gone soft. It was no less than you deserved.

  Now they’re waking the shabbubitum. I remember what you told me. “They are more dangerous than anyone could have realized.”

  You should have left me alone. Now we’ll see how you manage—magic to magic.

  The door of the holding cell opened, jarring him from his thoughts. A sentry gestured for him to come out.

  “Where to?”

  The vampire did not answer.

  Having little choice, Heldridge walked from the cell and was escorted by twelve sentries to an elevator where another vampire waited. The vampire had a shaven head and wore a collarless shirt that had only the bottom half buttoned. It could have been a fashion statement but for the obvious scars on his neck. Once upon a time something had claimed chunks of his throat. His expression was one of disgust and contempt, and worse, the vampire had flat, lusterless eyes.

  That was a bad sign.

  During his century-plus of unnatural life, Heldridge had seen such before. Some of the younger undead had developed this phenomenon, recovering their life at sundown to bear the awful weight of their dead hours in their gaze. They were the vampires he knew would not long survive their new life. He had learned why the selection process for Offerlings was so intense and why their service was required for various lengths of time before being Made. It was not so much exclusive as it was merciful.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Giovanni Guistini, advisor to the Excelsior.”

  Heldridge was stunned. Listening to Giovanni speak was like hearing the hiss of an old steam locomotive, adding in a scratchiness so one could make words of it. With such a voice, his words would have to possess serious insight for anyone—much less the Excelsior—to suffer employing him for his spoken opinions.

  Four sentries stood in the elevator. Giovanni stepped in with them. The sentry behind Heldridge poked him in the back; he joined the group. More sentries piled in behind him.

  They rode downward in silence and Heldridge considered Giovanni.

  An advisor to the Excelsior would not be a young vampire. It was different when the suspiciously cruel eyes were on an older vampire. Heldridge had learned that when seen on a haven master, this symptom meant the vampire was not likely to expire, but those around him or her definitely were.

  He decided to regard Giovanni as extremely dangerous and unforgiving. It meant Heldridge wouldn’t dare to give these vampires any resistance or trouble.

  The elevator doors opened on an underground parking garage. More sentries waited there and led the group to an idling black limousine. “Get in,” Giovanni said as a sentry opened the door. Eagerly, Heldridge did. Four sentries were waiting inside. Heldridge sat in the center of the rear and was relieved to be out of the presence of the scarred and raspy advisor. Then Giovanni joined him. Heldridge scooted to the far door. “Any chance you’ll tell me where we’re going?”

  “None.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  By the time Menessos and I arrived at Public Square, I had accepted his assertion that he couldn’t tell me about Creepy, and my thoughts circled around the impending threat. My hands were shaking. In front of the haven I hit the hazard lights. “What can I expect of this shabbubitum reading of you?”

  “It will be nearly as painful to view as it will be to bear, but you must not interfere.” Menessos couldn’t have exited the car any faster. A doorman from the haven hustled to the driver’s side so he could park it for me. I popped the trunk lever. After grabbing my overnight bag and broom from inside, I said, “What if—”

  “Not under any circumstances, Persephone.” Menessos straightened to his full height as he spoke so that he might look slightly down his nose at me.

  “But—”

  “No buts. Do not interfere.”

  I kicked at the sidewalk. I hated not getting my thoughts out, but I hated the implied helplessness ten times more. I blurted, “As the Lustrata I should do something.”

  “You will. You will observe without acting.”

  “That’s not helpful.” Neither was the chill in the Lake Erie breeze that was blowing my hair around and hiding my frown.

  “Actually, it
is. However, if you mean it’s not ‘heroic,’ that is true, but trying to be heroic tonight would be . . . unwise.”

  I glowered. “How is it helpful,” I snarled, “to stand by while someone is tortured?” I stamped the bushy end of the broom stubbornly. “What am I here for, if not to aid you? You did say they might try to kill me.”

  Menessos was very still. “You must be seen here at my side in court. Until the instant that they say you are my master, everyone in this haven must believe you are not.”

  I swallowed hard. He wants me to flee, but only after it’s confirmed that I’m the bad guy, once every member of his haven knows what I’ve done and then hates and resents me like some of the pack hate and resent me being with Johnny, and like some of the witches hate and resent me. I didn’t like being put in danger, especially when it seemed like danger for the sake of being in danger. This witch wasn’t an adrenaline junkie. If he just wants me to see him suffer for more of my pity— “What’s the payoff for you in that?”

  “If you are absent, your guilt appears evident. If you are present, it appears you are innocent. I mean, if you were my master, logically, why would you wait around knowing they would be obligated to seize you?”

  “Exactly,” I said insipidly. The need to “sell” the notion of being innocent, I could understand, but that seemed thin considering just how guilty I was.

  Menessos gently smoothed my hair into place as the wind died down. “The additional benefit is that VEIN will be assured my people were unaware of it. All of my people. Even Goliath. They will not be read or censured for their silence.”

  Crestfallen, I let my shoulders slump. “Oh.” Accepting a personal risk to ensure others didn’t have to suffer what the shabbubitum did to read them . . . that was danger that had a noble purpose.

  He had me where he wanted me and he knew it.

  “You’re betting my life,” I said, “on your ability to twist things.”

  He tilted his head and peered at me softly. “You can’t deny I’m good at it.”

  Seduction. Now? Suspicious, my chin levered up as I considered that. “What are you up to?”

  He tweaked my chin and grinned mischievously. “Trust me?” It was a breathtaking smile. The smile of the fantasy King Arthur of my girlish dreams. “Yes.”

  He leaned in and put a quick peck of a kiss on my cheek. The brush of his short beard was soft and warm. “Perfect.” He walked away. “You will keep that broom Xerxadrea gave you handy, won’t you? I suggest you keep it right beside your stage seat.”

  Inside the haven, Beholders were setting up brass posts linked with velvet ropes as if preparing for an exclusive evening. Seven met us in the lobby carrying a roll of blueprints and a flat carpenter pencil. Her blue-black hair was gathered up in a high ponytail. It made her beauty sharper and her turquoise eyes brighter.

  She was just leaving the work-in-progress dance club that was set to become a source of haven income, so the construction boots and jeans she wore didn’t surprise me, but the low-slung leather belt laden with dirty, well-worn tools did. Seeing us, she advanced. “Boss. Erus Veneficus.”

  “How is it coming in there?” Menessos asked.

  She offered him the blueprints. “Ahead of schedule.”

  He tsk-tsked her teasingly. “And you thought they would lose a whole day without you.” He unrolled the paper.

  “I never said they’d be a whole day behind, and for the record, your secondary request ate up my first two hours of the night. I just got back.” She pointed to a few places that had markings in red. They had a brief discussion concerning changes to the original plans.

  Menessos approved of her solutions and rerolled the paper for her. “Did those two hours pay off?”

  “VEIN’s biggest jet is scheduled to arrive at Dulles in D.C. for refueling, then is heading for Hopkins. Arrival is set for twelve twenty.” She checked the display on her satellite phone. “About five hours from now.” She paused. “Ivanka?”

  “Mountain messaged me that she was in recovery. He will let me know when she’s able to be released.”

  “They won’t keep her overnight?”

  “They might, but I want her brought here.”

  “Her quarters are ready. As are the rooms of the Erus Veneficus, per your request.” She gave me a look that was happy, but with an undertone of sneakiness.

  “Thank you, Seven.” Menessos strolled away.

  I didn’t follow. Seven was the previous Lustrata. I had so many questions, but I hadn’t had a chance to speak to her since she’d told me her true identity shortly before the battle with the fairies. I switched the grasp on my broom and offered her my hand to shake. “I hope we’ll have a chance to talk again.”

  She wrapped her arms around me. “It’s good to have you back,” she whispered.

  “Persephone?” Menessos called.

  She released me and I joined Menessos at the elevator.

  “She likes you,” he said as we rode down.

  “I’m glad. I like her too. Would like to know her better.” She was, after all, Cleopatra VII, as in the Cleopatra. Who wouldn’t want to ask her a million questions? But, since she went by the name Seven now, it was easy to assume that she didn’t want to be known for her past.

  With that thought, I gained a little insight as to why Menessos didn’t want the world at large to know his own past. He wouldn’t be seen as who he is, but as who he was.

  That drew my thoughts to Johnny. I wanted him to be who I knew him to be. But he isn’t himself since we unlocked his tattoos.

  Maybe I’d been hasty in getting rid of the in signum amoris.

  Am I doubting Hecate?

  I followed Menessos from the elevator, down the stairs of the theater, up the ramp and across the stage. I situated my broom to lean against my seat, noting the Beholder on his knees a few feet away from Menessos’s throne. He was wiping what appeared to be a new decorative inset in the floor. Someone called out, “Testing the light,” and a glow rose up from under the stones the man was wiping clean.

  Rejoining Menessos, who had waited for me, we wound our way through the backstage area to where our separate rooms were located. I started up the stairwell that led to my rooms directly above his.

  “Do you wish to freshen up and then join me? Or may I join you?”

  Halfway up, I turned back with a telling sigh. “Promise no funny business?”

  “I am not a comedian.”

  “But you are who you are.”

  “Indeed.”

  At least I knew what to expect with him. And after thousands of years, he didn’t bother denying it. As I watched him ascend the stairs I wondered if he’d wrestled with it. I wondered if he’d won. Or if he’d lost and come to terms with it.

  I punched in the entry code, Beverley’s birthday, and entered to find my quarters were candlelit and a fire blazed in the double-sided hearth. The warmth that greeted me, the sweet gesture behind it, almost spouted the waterworks again, but I kept the tears in check. Hearing Menessos arrive at the door behind me, I said over my shoulder, “This isn’t a strategizing setup.”

  “Just now, you require a soothing environment.”

  On my way inside I stripped off my blazer-hoodie combo. “You have a plan, don’t you?”

  He appraised my face, my body. “Indeed.”

  Noting the double entendre, I clarified. “For the shabbubitum.”

  “Them, too.”

  I carried my coats toward the bar, intending to hang them across the seat. “Tell me.” Then I noticed how dirty and torn the back of my blazer was. “Shit.” The den rooftop had ruined it.

  “I can get you a new jacket. Any kind you like.”

  “That won’t gain you the favors you’re after.”

  Menessos entered the kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. “It can’t hurt my chances.”

  Admittedly, I examined his backside as he leaned down and rambled around a shelf. He had a very nice, round ass. When he stood straight,
I inspected the rip on my blazer more studiously. “Tell me your plan.”

  “It begins with these.” He held up a bottle of wine and a small plate bearing slices of marbled cheese, salami, and little crackers. Seeing my dubious expression, he added, “Fear not. You do not overindulge, and I am not a lecher, so getting you drunk and taking advantage of you is not part of my plan, though it is a wildly good idea that I have entertained. Tonight, however, your shaking hands belie a need that I am well acquainted with. A drink would help.” He retrieved a glass from the cupboard and set about uncorking the wine.

  “Telling me what your plan is not is not telling me your plan.”

  “True.” He poured. “You are not materialistic, so pretty things will not sway you, but I will woo you with time, Persephone.” He set the bottle aside and presented me with the glass. “It is the one thing I have that dear John does not.”

  Johnny. I did not accept the slender stem. Could I ever trust Johnny again?

  I relived the rooftop attack.

  After scenting my blood, his beast had conquered his man-mind. But even in human form, he was losing control when we had sex at the den. He’d recovered, but. . . . Do I want to bear the scars—both the emotional and the physical ones—of him relearning his self-control? I had to believe that he could regain control.

  “Persephone.” Menessos put power behind the whisper and warmth fluttered down my spine, down my legs, and echoed back up with a fine resonance that hinted at the kind of thrills this vampire could induce. “Drink the wine.”

  I drank the wine.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Meroveus Franciscus sat separate from his guests aboard the plane, assessing them. Aware that he would need someone to give the sisters use of a modern language, he’d reviewed the files on their colleagues in Athens on the plane before the dawn had claimed him. He’d wanted someone who was generally naïve, who served with an excessive amount of adoration, and who had more than average debt. Zevon was part of the arrangements that had been made.

  In addition to language, the sisters now knew what Zevon knew of the world.